Old Green Cottage

That vertical driveway seemed daunting even as a child, like we were being lifted far above the earth, raised up to this place of peace and tranquility. It felt as if the vehicle would flip backwards, the incline was so steep and like a miracle when we came to rest along the grassy edge of the driveway. The hammock swayed longingly under those towering trees and the view had that red roof top on a barn on that slope a few miles away. Those distant hills awash in vibrant color, depicting life at a distance and contributing to the beauty of that place. The front yard was vast and a mix of ecotone, trees as tall as giants on one side and expansive fields of grass to the other side. Encompassed in trees and forests with that apple orchard just beyond the house he built. They called it the cottage, but it was as much a home as any, with secrets and mysteries no child could resist. You could watch the seasons change from that frontage, sitting at that picnic table while mountains of fresh corn on the cob dripping with golden melted butter awaited grasping hands from all directions. The grass was soft beneath our feet and the chipmunk crossing sign greeted guests near the front door.

The cold porch at the front door had an aroma of fresh cut wood and spring rain as it welcomed us in. To the right was the kitchen, as country a kitchen as any with long counters, seafoam green cabinets and the black wood stove that crackled all year long. Mornings here were early and blissful, homey and serene. Food created there were like morsels of heaven, each bite was more of a delight than the last. Out the side door to the snarled path to the neighbors, rich with thick tree roots breaching the soft ground. Around the back was woods, deep and dense with birds singing blissfully throughout the long summer days. Beyond the back of the house was an apple field and the rich aroma wafted down to the cottage when the wind caught it right. The giant rain barrel leaned against the side of the cottage and was always full, almost tipping over from its shear weight. The separate garage was mere steps from the cottage doubling as a wood working shop on one side and a garage on the other. Stacks of chopped wood lined the back of the garage and if you were paying attention you might catch a glimpse of the long eared jack rabbit hiding in the wood stacks, waiting for the humans to vacate his space. The woodshop itself was dusty and warm, thick with the smell of creation and burned etching. So much was created and built here, the talent and workmanship was its own reward.

Beyond the garage was the large grassy field where we would play for hours under the hot summer sun. Funny to be in such a clearing, exposed to the heat of the day, when mere steps away was the tranquility of the forest greens, rich, soft and cool. That field always had the aroma of just cut grass and made you feel like you were in a universe made just for play. Further along that Cul de Sac was the quarry where the wild blue and black berries grew. Sticky fingers lunging over sharp poking branches just seeking the fruit they bared. Hours we would spend there, at the end of that street in that creepy quarry with the big white cross in the middle. Was that a burial place? Was it someone or something that had chosen that as its resting place or was it just a cross to remind us that we were not as alone and secure as we felt there in that peaceful place.

The night was dark and chilling. Wrapped in country blackness where the only light we had was the moon and the stars. Magically terrifying, staying cozy by the fire was the better option. We tried not to picture that quarry with the cross and what the night would bring to it. We stayed inside with the fire and the family. When I think of him I remember that sweet and acrid wafting air that surrounded and clung to him like a soul to a body. That rainbow dotted candy jar filled with peppermints. He was tall and handsome, strong though his years had made him move slower. He would sit in that green chair with the wooly cushions that looked scratchy to the touch, in front of that massive fire place he built that cottage around. He was quiet and kind and it is his voice that I cannot recall. She was the voice, but he was the decider for the most part.